I am sm audacious enough to laugh even in the face of death.
That’s how I am known amongst the most. Then there are those who realize this with the passage of time and others who often scratch a wounded mark on my existence; do so, after it’s a little too late for any realization or amendments thereafter. I have and always will chirp around like a merry bird oblivious to any trap. I will fly higher than any eye could track and then soar back to the ground to watch the ants moving in a queue quite unaware of any foot heavy and big enough to wipe away a part of that line for the next few minutes.
The raven calls and my day begins. Inhaling deep the strangeness of yet another similar day, I chart out… to live. The mundane clock sways its wings around to mark the same and yet, a different time again. I gasp and look around for a muse. Perhaps, an inspiration might strike my head while its drifting far away from any possible conceivable mind. It would then grow in me clasping its hold on me to root a new idea. For now, the thoughts are sailing cloud without a drop to fall.
It’s not draught yet.
A catchy tone plays itself like the morning breeze over the sea, calm and serene; yet, any moment causing the waves to break the banks. If banks are constantly washed away and sky is but an expanding no-limit stretch; then why do we stop short behind a posing, often invisible line of restriction or more?
If wind blows, water flows, rain falls and light spreads, then where is the concluding point?
Maybe I’m not ornamental; I am a weed who will form roots every time it is uprooted and flourish like a forest shrub. I’m not meant to show sit in a living room next to the brass Buddha; instead, I’ll grow my shoots over the touching branches of different trees to make those a seemingly jointed part of me.
Count the stones those you throw at me; yet, they will fall through me… but when and if you come back to pick those up; maybe, because you need those back for a repeat performance, you will find all of those shining bright and stacked neatly. I do not promise if you will be able to walk carrying the weight of those back. The tears those polished those to squint your vision would cast the shadow of their ghosts. The cries of those stones when met with the salty reservoir had rooted words in me, dissecting the memories, so not even the spent carcasses remains. Mind you, there are many more rocks around. The chances are that you might trip, or maybe, find more people like yourself fallen around. But if you manage to run away empty handed, you will see the foliage growing tendrils to hold more adjoining trees. Dew drops shining brightly on its veins of leaves, the birds around would be hopping from branch to branch in sheer delight.
Don’t ever come back again for I wouldn’t know if the rooted words compose a rock or two and if those would hurl themselves at the peeping passerbys.